PRF Short Fiction

¶ Hypotheticals and Nostalgia

You know how you deal with memories that hurt, man? Think back further to the ones that don’t. Inevitably, yeah, that’ll lead you back to more memories that hurt again, so you have to think back past those as well. Just keep thinking back and thinking back until you’ve got cosmic dust particles clinging together to form the big bad world you live in, the big bad world that alternately pumps you up then fucks you up. Actually, since you’re thinking backward, those dust particles are being pulled apart- pulled apart and sucked back into space, and then all of space, the whole big bang, is sucked up into a tiny point. And that tiny point is on the verge, then it isn’t, then it’s gone. And where are you? You’re where you were, so long after the big bang already happened, after dinosaur extinction, after all the births of your grandparents and parents and you and all of your friends and enemies and all of your parents’ and grandparents’ friends and enemies. And all those stinging memories lead you to the present, cuffed in the back of a police cruiser, face red and wet, not even trying to explain anything to the cops because there’s no way you could anyway.

1.) Ouyay owknay owhay you ealday ithway emoriesmay atthay urthay, anmay? Inkthay ackbay urtherfay o-tay the ones atthay on’tday. Evitablyinay, eahyay, at’llthay eadlay ouyay ackbay o-tay oremay emoriesmay atthay urthay ainagay, o-say ouyay avehay o-tay inkthay ackbay astpay osethay say ellway. Ustjay eepkay inkingthay ackbay tilunay ou’veyay otgay osmiccay ustday articlespay ingingclay ogthertay o-tay ormfay the igbay adbay orldway ouyay ivelay in, the igbay adbay orldway atthay ternatelyalay umpspay ouyyay up and ucksfay ouyay up. Uallyactay, incesay ou’reyay inkingthay ackwardbay, odethay ustday articlespay are eingbay ulledpay artapay- ulledpay artapay and uckedsay ackbay toinay acespay, and enthay all of acespay, the olewhay igbay angbay, say uckedsay puay toinay a inytay ointpay. And atthay inytay ointpay say on the ergevay, enthay it ntisay, enthat it’s onegay. And erewhay are ouyay? Ou’reyay erewhey ouyay ereway, o-say onglay terafay the igbay angbay readyalay appenedhay, terafay inosaurday tinctionexay, terafay all the irthsbay foay ouryay nadparentsgray and arentspay and ouyay and all foay ouryay riendsfay and miesenay and all foay ouryay andparents’gray and arents’pay riendsfay and miesenay. And all osethay ingingstay emoriesmay eadlay ouyay o-tay the resentpay, uffedcay in the ackbay foay a olicepay uisercray. Acefay edray and etway, otnay enevay ryingtay o-tay plainexay the opscay ecausebay ere’stahy o-nay ayway ouyay ouldcay wayanyay.

2.) Ah shit, dawg, you gotta roll wit’ that shit. Get your head back to before shit went all crazy. Bitches ain’t nothin’ but a thing no-how. Then you start thinking all cosmic shit like how you roll wit’ dinosaurs and the big bang and shit. Nawbuffarilldo, jail ain’t nothin’ but a thang, dawg, like bitches.

3.) .... .... .... ..... ..... ..... ..... .... ..... ..... .... ..... ..... .... .... .... .... .... .... ....(it's mime).... ..... ..... .... ..... .... .
4.) Social networking sites are an illness. It’s like every high school after high school, every chapter of your extended adolescence. Fuck'em.

Saturday, June 25, 2011 · (No comments)

¶ Now I'm All Satin and Steel

She puts this in front of me to keep me honest,”so says the one who has all collapse around him.
Patter, patterpatter--A mouse came walking across his desk. Across his desk to his done pile and stood on to legs. Although seated on the chair, the mouse still looked up at Munx. Mouse groomed himself and the rolled up his cuff. “One “arm”then the other. Munx looked down at the Mouse and said, “Are you done?”

And the mouse said, “No, but are you?”

Then Munx says, “I know your name, your voice: it’s late and I have work to do rather, I am not finished yet. “
The mouse said, “I know. You have kept me awake with this thing” And the mouse ran over and kicked Munx’s typewriter. Cringing while the bell rang
And then continued”And that sound."

Munx speaks, "The mouse became "unperched" and ran the forearms length to the typewriter and kicked it hard enough to ring the bell and returned to his spot sleeves still rolled up, but breathing heavy.”
The white shit NOT snow falls from the sky stops

Friday, May 27, 2011 · (No comments)

¶ The Middle Man

It took me two years. Two years. I'd have the day for you, but I'm not that picky; two years is enough to scream about it. I'd best find a gun or at least something sharp.

Thing is, you know yourself well in advance, to the fact that you damn well won't have any use for it when you get it. What? Doesn't it go that you get angry, look her in the eye, she spontaneously explodes, and then... ... ...? Where'd the knife go? Hmm, sonny? She explodes and suddenly you're in Costa Rica dancing with a moonbeam? Or in the middle of a bridge in God-knows-where? Or... fuck... I dunno. I've no idea... See! I'm me talking to you (also me), and I can't even think this through. Ineffective's the problem. Completely ineffective. You get these ideas in your head and they seem so grand, but they fizzle out like cheap butter... you ought to try harder.

Anyway, the book. That bitch, my book. I should look up. She was there a second ago, screaming. Where'd she go? I'm trying the door but it won't open. Imagine that. I suppose I'll climb the fence, then? You know, I'm not that bothered. I'm busy remembering the one before that. It was about a dragon named knob. Or knobby. Not sure. I figured I needed a push in the deep end and didn't care what way it went. Fix it as you go along, damage control, steer up... Except it was more like a Messerschmitt right toward the ground. 100 feet and approaching... trying to remember my prayers so I can say them... oh what's the use....

Fantasy... ugh... wait, that was the one before, when I was...?... I'd have to be pretty fucking young to take something like that seriously. Was it the one before THAT? It's been four, right? There was the noir wherein he chased that dame who what maybe killed her husband and I was aiming for a faux generic thingy with a big twist in the second part. See, a nice generic turd to ease you in and after that you get dynamic. Start 'changing the game' and so on. Except, our hero was a little too clever and figured it all out by the third chapter. I really stretched them out, too, you know.
I tried looking to The Orient after that, you know. Hit upon some arcane mixture of never before combined combinations in my deviousness. I jumped into the Bhagavad Gita AND looked into some old samurai tales (Shang dynasty? Sheeyang?). I even took up a Tao stage! Though, that lasted just slightly less than that second samurai story. Something about a fat jap who spent 20 pages cramming his hole with rice-cakes and talking about nature. The sooner he'd go and shit in the woods, the sooner we could get back to scheduled programming i.e. samurais, honour, that sort of thing. If a fat chinaman shits in the wood, does anyone really finish the book? Ask yourself that...

Oh, I really wish she hadn't put it through the woodchipper. Look at it. All this pale history. It's like the ghost of dalliance past. You know, when we ordered this thing I couldn't stop imagining what I'd put in there. I dug out the old basketballs and shoes from the basement and saved them by the door. One a day. I even snuck one of her old handbags. She never used it. Gave me much pleasure. I'd stretch out my breakfast routine, just to pace the excitement, and on weekends I'd have a field day. My own personal holiday. Except, of course, the days after the nights I'd have those dreams. The awful, awful, awful ones where I'd stand for days in front of it, beckoning me, book in hand, afraid some invisible wind would come and knock it away ---> straight forward into the jaws. Bastard. Absolute bastard. In the worst ones I'd manage to get away; somehow find myself a house or two over, safe and sound, but then I'd blink (once) and I'd be back there, a foot closer, beckoning... Me before it! Me before it! Bastard.

...

...

American Sissy

....

Hey, that's not bad. I should use that... "American, Sissy"...
It "flows" quite well, actually. Say, a man is disillusioned with society, this modern one, alienated, cornered, trying to free himself from capitalism, trying to find a way. Out from under the beast. Trying to survive. Maybe... maybe. Out from under the beast!!

I should get rid of the woodchipper first, though. I can't work with it out here.

Bastard.

Actually, it was particularly bad the past few nights. We left the curtains open for the breeze and I could see the moonlight glinting off it from my side of the bed. She looked at me like I was a fool when I asked her to switch sides. Told me not to wake her again "or else". Twat. I did wake up, though. What would you expect? It was taunting me, out there, in the cruele night. Fiend. I ended up pacing the floor at 4am. Too wound up. I tried to psychoanalyze myself and stood in the kitchen in my underwear, ate a schnitzel. That made me laugh, actually; peculiar. I woke her up to tell her. She wouldn't budge the first while, so I accidentally poked her a few times, elbowed her as I turned over from where I was sitting on the bed. It cheered me up to no end, though she didn't seem to "get it". The fool...

Thursday, May 26, 2011 · (No comments)

¶ The Godhead

And so: The virgin’s sinewy golden frame was stretched taut over the grey stone alter. Her wrists and ankles bound in gold cuffs attached to leather chains pegged into the alter’s sides. A line was drawn with indigo ink above her heaving chest- her tan orbs like generous scoops of coffee flavored ice cream topped with chocolate cherries- from armpit to armpit.

The priest donned his ceremonial headgear- the head of a gold-plated badger- and stood above the quivering virgin.

“Fear not, young virgin,” the priest told the girl chained to the alter. “You exist for a higher purpose than any that could be bestowed upon you here.”

It was true, the girl bore a full, healthy mane of dark hair and skin that seemed sculpted of polished bronze.

Adhering to the inky blue guideline, the henchman swung the axe.

White flakes had been descending down for days, though it was the thick of summer, and the temperatures remained hot.

However, while temperatures around the jungle were usually humid, this summer was exceptionally dry. The usually lush vegetation was growing brown, wilted.

The village medicine man was summoned. He’d determined a drought was due, because the harvest god contracted dandruff.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011 · (No comments)

¶ Dancing Pearls

I remember thinking it was unusually cold for May. I also remember thinking that I might not collect on Little John and Georgie’s tabs. Little John was into me for a pack of squares and Georgie was into me for five bucks for a tube of biscuits and a tall boy of beer. Silly that that’s what I was thinking.
I suppose if my leg actually hurt, that’d be on my mind but it didn’t hurt. It would start hurting soon, though, when my nervous system kicked into gear and the epinephrine levels returned to normal and I could be angry that I’d never walk again, not without a prosthetic.
My body. Irreparably damaged.
“Hal?” I heard Cole from my left, “You sure pulled this one off, Hal. Jesus.”
Cole. Fucking Cole. I remember telling Cole, “Shut up and find my leg.”
“Your leg?”
“Cole?” I was staring up at the sky, watching the flakes, shimmering in the light with cloudy, soft glimmers coming off of them like pearls, waft toward us, “I think my leg is gone, Cole.”
“Bullshit, Hal, your leg aint - Oh, shit.” He must have gotten up; I could hear him coming toward me.
“How bad is it, Cole?”
“It’s gone!”
I hacked something and asked, “Above or below the knee?”
Cole answered. I just didn’t hear him. I just lay there, staring up at the sky, and occasionally hacking a cough that moved my chest and hurt my throat. I then became aware of pressure on my thigh. “What’s that?”
“Closing the pod-bay doors, Hal. Putting a tourniquet on you.”
I just closed my eyes and said, “Good,” thinking that I might have gone to sleep at that moment; I’d probably lost a good deal of blood. I had to fight off sleep; I opened my eyes again to the dancing white flakes in the sky. Soon enough, gravity would have them and they’d be down here, on the ground, decorating us. Covering us.
I tried to keep my eyes open while my leg throbbed, I reached down to Cole’s shoulder, grabbed it and told him, “Gimme a smoke, Cole.”
“Gimme a minute, Hal,” and he finished tying off my leg - well, my stump, now. I could hear him moving about before he said, “Here.”
I reached out and took the smoke from his hand, ever looking up at those pearly flakes dancing and said, “I think I left my light in - in… Where the fuck did I leave my light?” and then I saw the orange flame erupt around a blue heart under my nose and began sucking through the cigarette deeply.
“You’re going to make it, Hal.”
I heard some rustling and Cole was sitting up over me, then, on a box it looked like. I told him I needed a beer.
“We’ll get you a beer when we get back. Some painkillers. Some pussy, too, don’t worry about it.” His face was blackened by dirt and soot, ash in his hair. He lit his own smoke, making a fish-face to suck on the square, and surveyed the damage. He said, “Look at the way they all dance up there,” pointing out across the sky, “You seeing this shit, Hal?”
“Yeah, yeah, I see it.” Against the smoke and storm clouds, they almost seemed to form constellations. I saw the patterns they made - No. I made them into patterns. I made the beer steins down at the Sturm und Drang Lounge. I made Angela’s naked body. I made Johnny Ramone’s guitar. Each one of them, I held for the split second they existed before they all danced apart, off to find new dance partners, new dances, different time signatures, different melodies. I asked, “Do you see my leg anywhere?” before another chest-heaving cough forced my eyes shut again.
“Lemme finish this smoke and I’ll see if it’s near, OK?” Cole’s way of saying to forget it; it’s gone. Probably blown what? fifty? a hundred yards away? “You really did it, man, I gotta tell you.” His dirty paw placed the cigarette back to his lips and he inhaled deeply before blowing out the plume of smoke. My pearls in the sky seemed repelled by the smoke even though they were probably a quarter mile up.
I found it in myself to sit up, if only just to look down at my leg. My stump, I mean. Cole saw me trying to get up and said, “Just stay down.”
I sat up and looked down, finally down, and saw the shreds of flesh below my knee and the tourniquet just above it. My knee I mean. It was an awful sight and it was then that I realized that Cole might have been right all along: No use looking for the other half of my leg. Probably disintegrated. Cole reached around to his back and grabbed his canteen. He uncapped it, took a swig, and handed it to me. “Water?”
Cole. Fucking Cole. I remember telling Cole, “Shut up and find my leg.”
“You OK?”
“I’m fine. I just - ” I looked behind me and then back to Cole and took the canteen, “I just need to lay down.” I took five long gulps off the canteen and handed it back before I laid back down and watched the dancing pearls in the sky. They seemed to be coming closer.

Tannhauser Gate
May 2nd, 2417

I open my journal and scratch at my shin only to feel the prosthetic under my fingers. Ghost itch. I tap my pen to my temple and wonder, “What to explain to my son today?” I haven’t long for this world and the doctor says it’ll be a wonder if I even see the kid born. So now I’ve got to write this thing. Tell him who I am. I may as well get around to it and finally explain how I got sick in the first place. Years ago. At the Tannhauser Gate.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011 · (No comments)

¶ Bad Bunny

Clayton looked down at the hot pink bunny in Mark’s grip. It looked so goofy and innocent all of the sudden, with its dumb googly eyes and buck teeth. It looked like it would hop to its doom with the same idiotic expression on its face, oblivious that things like death are supposed to be bad, and that things like fire are supposed to hurt. Part of him wanted to grab the bunny from Mark’s arms and run off, but he knew that would make him just as weird as Terry. No girls at his school would talk to him then.

“So,” Clayton asked. “Why Moony?”

“Moony’s already kind of bad,” Terry said.

“Bad how?”

“Dad threw him once, when he was mad.”

“Your dad was mad at Moony?”

“No, but Moony was there when Dad yelled to pick this crap up, and he threw Moony at me.”

“So, it’s Moony’s fault your room or whatever was messy?”

“A little bit, just because there’s too much stuff, and if Dad gets mad and throws something I know that’s what should get used.”

Clayton looked down at Moony again. Poor Moony, Clayton thought. He knew it was a ridiculous thing to think, but it’s not like he was talking to his classmates or friends or anything. Plus, he couldn’t really help it, he just all of the sudden felt sorry for the poor dumb stuffed bunny.

“So,” Clayton asked, “when do we begin executing these ghosts?”

“We have to wait until it gets dark,” Mark said, nodding.

“Mark, Aunt Sarah really lets you hang out here burning stuff until it gets dark?”

“Ummm,” Mark tried to evade. “Yeah.”

“So, if I told her we were all out in the woods setting fire to dollies and crap she’d be okay with it?”

Mark didn’t answer and Clayton put his hands on his hips and grinned.

“You’re not gonna tell her about the burning are you?” Mark whined. “You already swore you’d keep this a secret.”

“Just, you get to stay out this late?”

“She knows I’m with Terry.”

Clayton’s mom read him the riot act if he came home at sunset, so this was super unfair. Still, he’d promised. Even if these were just a couple of dorks, he knew he couldn’t go back on that.

“You’re not gonna tell are you?” Mark asked again.

“No, don’t worry geek, I won’t tell. But I think you owe me.”

“What do you want?”

“I don’t know yet, I’ll think of something later.” Clayton watched as that sank in. Mark’s face became unsettled.

“Already promised,” Mark mumbled, and Clayton grinned to himself.

“You did,” Terry said, looking Clayton in the eye all crazy. Clayton almost laughed out loud again. Jeez, pipe down, little demon-boy. “In fact you swore, you swore you wouldn’t.”

“Okay man.” If Clayton had to accompany these two freaks, he could at least push a couple of geek buttons. “Calm down, I already said I won’t tell.”

“Do you know what happens if you tell?” Terry asked.

“I go to hell, because I swore.”

“Yeah, but before that my brother will find you. When he does, you’re dead.”

   Clayton didn’t know Bobby. He’d seen Bobby’s picture in the Ervin yearbook from a couple of years ago, though, and in a couple of random hallway photos. He was super-skinny, with greasy hair that stuck up in back and really uncool, wire-framed dad-type glasses that were too large and a little crooked on his face.

   “I said I won’t tell anybody.”

Bobby Jensen didn’t seem like too much of a threat, except he wore army jackets to school, read gun and weapon catalogues and carried, like, throwing stars and nun-chucks in his backpack. Plus there was whatever he got kicked out of school for. Besides, Clayton realized that telling anybody meant admitting he hung around with his little cousin, and his little cousin’s weird little friend with the psycho older brother.

“So,” Clayton asked. “Your brother brought other people down here?”

“Yeah, he’d bring some of his friends from the junior high.”

“Who’d he show this too?” Clayton was genuinely curious. It might be something he could talk about with older kids at Hickman, when he went.

“I usually wasn’t allowed to go when they went. I went with him and Steve Leery and Dave Murphy a couple of times.”

Ah, Clayton thought. That makes sense. Those two were known stoners, weirdos, there were rumors of animal torture.

“Steve and Dave both tried to get me to smoke, but I couldn’t stop coughing. He came here with Jessica Crenshaw a couple of times, but he made me go home once we got to the woods.”

So, Clayton thought. The plot thickens. This could be a good reason to strike up a conversation with Amanda, Jessica’s sister, who was in his English class. She had bobbed dark hair, wore dark eye make-up around her eyes like a raccoon and Cure t-shirts. Clayton had been looking for an excuse to talk to her. She was weird but she was cute, a lot of guys thought so.

It started getting a little darker and fireflies orbited the three boys and their ghost catcher.

I’m quitting here, for word count.

Wednesday, April 27, 2011 · (No comments)

¶ Compliance

He walked downstairs from his study and spoke to the class in low honeyed tones. After waiting for many hours he was calm and relaxed. A true story was coming out of him. He needs only seconds to compose himself anymore

“

The following idea occurred to me while working in yet another warehouse situation. The dilemma presented itself as a simple production problem A series of events where oil from metal could not mix with clean water. The water was in a sink that we call the Lovely Faces of Debt sink. The other sink we will call the Metal sink.

This was not an actual dilemma. But while trying to fix the problem with hot water, things got worse for me and the simple answer was allowing time to pass and deal with it later.

The dilemma presented itself as I considered old information, new information, and old technology, new technology at a rapid pass. Add to that the distance and time it took to walk to the sinks and cut the material we were attempting to process for further production of the material.

My actions speak for who I am today a man whose life has become his work. His life’s work; Work has become life. Add to this that I only took one hit of acid while reading aloud the work of Bukowski as per my favorite friend who was a poet at the time.

She was a childhood friend who was dating a good friend of mine. She and Wild Man lived in the front room. She helped me find my voice reading the story CB wrote about Jesus coming back to the earth to help his favorite baseball team. As I read I discovered a natural unstressed real speaker who took each word serious-like. And then the acid took hold and the words became cities I had to conquer and the periods became obstacles that I could not miss. And when Bukowski hit the end of his story I made an effort to avoid laughter. This experience haunts me to this day. I do wish it gone, but I am glad that this childhood friend and I had this experience.

Good night.. Be right back.

Sorry I was rambling so.

What I really wanted to tell you was that she was the prettiest girl in town at the time a bit young but that never bothered me. Getting a handle of what the next generation thought was always important. She sat with my bud Stewart and talked about Clikatat I bought that album asap and we planned a benefit for the homeless.

Her name was Techno-Lauren. The girl was so emo she was Techno! My only experience with techno music was figuring out the Dunt-dunt-duntdnt/duntduntduntdun on the keyboard at the local music library.

I DIGRESS!!!

We planned the event and I was gonna do sound, but I was so broke that all I could do was show up and represent the rockers. Then the drunk punks ruined it by having the show cancelled. Other bands have other memories. Mine are just as good cause I was there was Apparatus Engine who brought Army of Ponch (Fla) to the Philadelphia area.

The Cancer Conspiracy and so many other bands from that time frame. A highlight for me was Technician who not only was gracious enough to talk to me at Bert’s in DE and sit at table and greet other like-minded geeks like myself. I was the one who suggested the nametags. TechnolL jumped at this idea. I threw out her busty picture after she met a boy who she had cars in common. Ain’t seen her since.

Sorry I was rambling so.

The other part of this story is the instructions I hope this meets the word count. Yeah this didn’t happen either.”

The following true story is from the bullshit file: This list is pulled from the file

1. Move it like an old lady.

2. Boxes of Turkey bacon say . . .Gobble!!!

3. Metal flowers have petals.

4. Eat the Empire-size serving.

Toku-te' you're up. Read your story.

Okay, boss.

Come on Tuku get a move on there is clapping going on at this point.

Aw, boss come on you need to relax. What you eat?

Nothing.

Well here have a bread sandwich!

Two pieces of bread that's all you get.

Two pieces of bread and you get to decide what's on the inside. What you get?

Egg salad!

You don't sound happy. You heard the rules right. That there sandwich can be any thing you want it to be. So what do you have?

It's egg salad. No celery this time but it's definitely an egg salad sandwich. So what you get, Tuku. ?

Olive loaf, turkey ham and processed cheese!

Dammit! Tell your story.

There weren't two nights back in 1977 that I could string together even a half of a good nights sleep. And then who-the-hell/ what's-his-name would stop around to my place for a visit. He is the guy would scream the worst string of obscenities at me and accuse me of murder, arson, treason, and theft. I'd walk out of a drug store and he'd be standing there.

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